Can't Do Without
by Trinity Everett
Summary: Emboldened by liquid courage, Beckett sends what might be the most important text of her life. Post-47 Seconds. AU. Caskett.


**Can't Do Without**

 **An AU post-47 Seconds Ficlet**

* * *

She'd gone out for a drink anyway.

As a rule, she tried not to make a habit of drinking alone – too much melancholy, too many bleak memories of the years immediately following her mother's murder – but with Ryan going home to Jenny, Esposito begging off out of exhaustion, Lanie doing the same, and Castle's abrupt about-face, it was a last resort. She just couldn't return to the solitude of her apartment yet.

Plus, a part of her – a large part of her – had also hoped her partner might change his mind and come find her at The Old Haunt, his bar – _their_ bar. In fact, she'd specifically chosen a table with a direct line of sight from the entrance and pressed her back against the wall facing out so he wouldn't have to search the room for her if he did.

But Castle hadn't reconsidered, and one hour (and one drink) became two, rolling over to three (and more) before she knew it. By the time her well-meaning server – one of the new hires Castle had been talking about last week – asked if she was okay to get herself home, she was more than a little fuzzy around the edges.

And more confused than ever.

They'd been so close for weeks, so soft with one another, and she'd seen in his face earlier in the week that he had just as much to tell her as she had to say to him. And then in the middle of the day, he'd just backed off, hardened, hadn't even been able to look her in the eye as he left her standing alone in the bullpen to call it a night. It just didn't make sense; what had changed?

What had she _done_?

She wanted him, she _loved_ him, and after days of being hit in the face yet again with the reminder of how short life was, she'd been on the verge of telling him so.

Halfway up the steps to the street outside the bar, she stopped short. Maybe that was what he needed. After the last week, maybe he just needed to know he wasn't in it alone, that his love wasn't something she intended to callously squander or refuse.

The late hour and the alcohol warming her veins made for a heady combination as she patted herself down to find her cell. Finally, she dug her phone from of her pocket and typed out a message, sending it before she had the opportunity to second guess herself and text him a fumbled retraction. She wouldn't take it back, not when something in her gut told her it was now or never.

She might not be totally ready, but she'd come clean; his response – whatever it would be – was on him. She just had to hope that it would work out the way her stubborn mind had finally begun to believe it would.

In the meantime, she was going home to sleep off the bone-aching weariness, along with that fourth drink and final shot.

* * *

There was a word for what he was doing: moping. He knew it as well as his mother did, but still his fingers had closed around the tumbler of scotch as soon as he returned home from the precinct. Still he had reached for the bottle a second and third time, pouring an extra finger's worth each time.

She had lied to him. She remembered _every_ second of her shooting, every word he'd said, every word she'd brushed off and later declared better left buried. Even worse, she didn't seem bothered by the fact that she had chosen a kid in the box, a petty thief, to be her confessor.

Rick could only wonder how many other people knew, how many others watched him with pity in their eyes because he still believed in a future that was never going to come. How stupid he had been, once again burdened with an overabundance of optimism, lulled by a fantasy.

He was just sorry it had taken so long for him to see it. To see that her smiles and her gentle nudges recently hadn't meant what he'd thought they did, that the radiance in her eyes had been because she was healing, getting back to herself, not because she wanted to be with _him_.

No more. He would take the next few days and the weekend to get a handle on himself, on his heart, after which he would be Kate Beckett's partner and nothing more. But for tonight, he would mope; tonight he would mourn for what could have been, and lament the extraordinary chapter that was never meant to be written.

He sighed, shaking his head at himself, his morose line of thought; never let it be said that he hadn't inherited his mother's sense of drama, her flair for making everything seem more grandiose than it was. Hell, he'd even managed to inherit her luck when it came to romance, to finding someone he thought would be his forever. More than once after her last husband ran away with her money, he had paced his office with her, indulging in a similar coping mechanism before sending her up to bed, and tonight it was his turn.

Martha had already tried to dissuade him from falling back into that pattern, leaving with his promise of one more drink hanging between them. Rick glanced at the glass in his hand, then the bottle, taking in what little remained before pouring himself another; what his mother didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

It wasn't the end of the world if he had one more drink, if he let the warmth of the liquor course through his veins long enough to wash away his anger. He would wake up in the morning and be fine. He would be able to answer Beckett's summons to a crime scene next week without a pang of heartache. It was what was expected of him, after all.

What he didn't expect was to see his phone light up with her name as he passed his desk. And God help him, anger and hurt be damned, he lifted the device and devoured her message anyway.

Only to stare at the screen until long after it had gone dark, the image of her words burned into his brain.

 _Are you awake?_

 _Please don't be asleep. I'm drunk and I need to tell you how much I love you._

* * *

She made it as far as the couch when she slipped into her apartment, toeing out of her shoes and slumping onto the cushions in her exhaustion. In a few minutes, she would force herself up for water and make her way to bed, but for the time being, the couch provided refuge from her troubles.

Castle hadn't responded to her messages. She knew he'd seen them – read receipts were a bitch – but he'd been radio silent in reply. Though maybe it was for the best; she was still on the tipsy side of sober, and it was almost two AM. He'd likely been asleep and only glanced to make sure it wasn't about a body. They could talk in the morning if that was what he wanted. She hoped that was what he wanted.

She practically jumped off the couch when the noise started, the harsh rap of a fist against her door echoing through her silent home, managing to catch herself at the last second before she landed on the floor.

"Beckett, are you in there?"

Her hand lifted, covering the spot between her breasts, calming the rapid stutter of her heart. It was just knocking, just Castle at her door.

"Beckett?" he called again, not taking her silence for an answer, and she sucked in a deep breath, moving to unlatch the door before her neighbors complained about the noise.

"I'm here, I'm here," she exhaled, pulling open the door and looking him over as he stepped into her place without waiting for an invitation.

He looked as tired as she felt, rumpled despite the expensive, tailored jacket draped over his shoulders, and a part of her wanted to suggest that they sleep on everything they needed to discuss instead of getting into it when they were both exhausted. She didn't, though. Instead she stepped closer, noting the lingering scent of mint and scotch on his breath.

Well, it seemed like they'd had similar evenings. Drinking alone – she hoped alone, anyway – and wallowing.

"If you–" he stopped himself, raking a hand through his already mussed hair. "Your text, was it true?"

Without the liquid bravado to bolster her, a cowardly part of her wanted to shy away, to pretend not to know what he meant, but his eyes were so earnest, she couldn't do that to him.

She nodded, licking her lips. "Yeah, it was."

Instead of seeing elation wash over his face, she watched as his features hardened. "And what you said to Bobby in interrogation? That you remember everything about your shooting? Was that the truth, too?"

Bile rose in her throat, forcing her to swallow hard. Now it made sense; his absence when she emerged from her interrogation, his clipped, pointed responses – sinning by silence – and the way he'd bailed on the discussion they'd been promising each other for days.

Unable to find her voice, she nodded, seeking the comforting touch of his hand. His fingers were stiff in her grip, but he didn't pull away, allowing her to cradle his hand in hers.

"Why did you lie?" he demanded after she'd been silent for too long, after a nod and a simple hand-hold weren't enough anymore. "Why would you – 'there are some things that are better not being remembered.' You said that to me, Kate. You said that to my face in the hospital."

"I know," she interrupted, stepping into his space, their clasped hands tucked against her chest. "I know I did, and I'm so – I'm sorry. I was in pain, I was terrified, I saw the funeral every time I closed my eyes. It was all screaming and agony, the smell of blood – my blood, Roy's blood. I would try to think about what you said to me – telling me you loved me – and I'd be right back in that moment. I _couldn't_ let myself remember it at the time. Not without losing my mind to everything it was tangled up with."

It was a ragged, haphazard explanation, hardly eloquent, but as she spoke, she saw understanding blossom in his eyes. That understanding made her brave.

"It was never about not wanting you, Castle," she murmured, wondering if he could feel the pound of her heart against his knuckles. "I just wanted to be better than that, for both of us."

Her partner exhaled, dropping his chin toward his chest. "I got it wrong today. I thought you – that I'd imagined, or filled in the wrong blanks, and only heard what I wanted to hear on the swings that day."

Shaking her head, Kate caught his eye again. "You didn't, Rick. You didn't. That was actually what I thought we might talk about, before you heard me in there."

Castle nodded, his eyes brightening with relief.

"So," she started, squeezing his hand to center herself again, "do you maybe want to get it right with me tonight?"

He blinked, surprise flushing his cheeks before he nodded, stepping closer. "I, yes, I would like that."

Kate grinned, lifting onto her toes. "Yeah?" she asked, tilting her head, urging him to meet her halfway, her breath catching at the first gentle, joyous touch of their lips. "Me too."

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you to two awesome Anons for prompting me to write this based on this post (bunysliper tumblr_ _post/162845425082 )_ _that is also the photo featured as this story's cover art. I hope you enjoyed it!_


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